


I'll Stop the World (and melt with you)

by isaac richard (isaacrichard)



Category: Mr. Robot (TV)
Genre: Complicated Relationships, Dubious Consent Due To Identity Issues, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Falling In Love, Kissing, M/M, Porn With Plot, but theyre in loveeeeeee, kind of., love that that tag exists. should have used it many fics ago
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-13
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:07:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25873330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isaacrichard/pseuds/isaac%20richard
Summary: Mr. Robot takes the night off.
Relationships: Mr. Robot/Tyrell Wellick
Comments: 3
Kudos: 36





	I'll Stop the World (and melt with you)

**Author's Note:**

> yeah yeah ive got a thing for tyrobot okay. so for this, they've been fucking for a couple months at least. Joanna's dead, Tyrell's been released by Dark Army, Elliot doesn't know about Robot's shenanigans with Tyrell. Set in the beginningish of season 3. 
> 
> also, my twentieth work in this teeny tiny fandom of ours, yay! i love gay robot. 
> 
> title from the modern english song

It’s a settling _click,_ when Elliot powers down for the night. Like a latch falling into place, firm and secure. The kid slept odd hours – but he did still need to sleep. He needed a lot more sleep than he got, actually. But even unconsciously, Mr. Robot could tell he was trying to hold on to that flimsy notion of control.

But control is an illusion, and Mr. Robot has come to life once again, as midnight drapes over New York City. The city lights are brilliant and blinding, warm and inviting, giving the streets a sense of faux cheer in the middle of an economic collapse. The streets still move with hustle-bustle, even at this hour.

This was his time, finally – and Mr. Robot feels energized, lighting a cigarette and strolling down into the subway. His train ride is a short one, or maybe it just seems that way. From the way that settled feeling stays, he doubts that Elliot will wake up tonight.

Which would be disastrous, considering he wasn’t headed anywhere Elliot might normally find himself.

No, not tonight – everything was set on fsociety’s end, at the moment, and on Darlene’s. Tonight, was a night just for Mr. Robot. The kind that he very rarely afforded himself. Tonight, he stands on the doorstep of Tyrell Wellick, finishing his cigarette and beginning another, breath and smoke mingling, then dissipating, into the chilly night.

The door opens without him needing to knock. Mr. Robot wonders if the Wellicks had security cameras – and how incriminating it would be if they did.

“ _Elliot,”_ Tyrell murmurs by way of greeting, and Mr. Robot won’t pretend he doesn’t love the note of reverence, even if the name is wrong.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Mr. Robot says, and a big part of him wants to soak these words in venom, stab Tyrell mercilessly and twist the knife. He should hate Tyrell Wellick – he should hate everything about him – but those big blue eyes and boyishly blond hair made it hard to stay mad, even on a philosophical level.

Tyrell melts, predictably. His mask cracks, and a disgusting amount of love and trust spills out, barely concealed by the little frown on his face. His whole demeanor goes from casual, to leaning so close out the door that he’s nearly on the pavement, as if afraid to be much longer without physical contact.

Mr. Robot has this internal debate every time he does this: he should hate Tyrell Wellick. It should be an unflinching, unchangeable fact, but it’s not.

Tyrell was a puppy dog of a man: eager to please, happy to fetch, but needing to be led by the leash. It should disgust Robot, make Tyrell lose any semblance of attractiveness. But it doesn’t.

It just makes Robot want to be the one holding the leash. Maybe it was more of a power trip, than it was mutual feelings – not surprising, considering how out of control everything else was – but it wasn’t a turn-off the way it should have been.

“Are you gonna… let me in?” Mr. Robot’s voice is softer than he had known it able to go, and he’s smiling. He knows these things, in the back of his head – that this is dangerous, how he’s acting. It tells Tyrell more than he needs to know.

Tyrell colors, pink rising easily to his pale cheeks, though Robot hadn’t meant to embarrass him – not really. “Yes, of course – uh, take your shoes off, if you don’t mind?”

He had never asked that before. Mr. Robot blinks – and Tyrell looks like he might backtrack, say it was fine – but kicks off Elliot’s sneakers once inside, leaving him in just holey socks. He wasn’t raised in a barn, despite what animals Elliot’s parents had been.

“You never asked me to, before,” Robot explains, not at all liking how much shorter Elliot was without his shoes. Tyrell practically towered over them.

Tyrell shrugs. “That was when you didn’t stay for very long.”

_So, he thinks I plan to stick around tonight…_

Mr. Robot laughs, not examining that development too closely. The fuck did Tyrell expect, for him to stay and cuddle? “You know me. Ramblers have to ramble on.”

“I _do_ know you, Elliot,” Tyrell says confidently, totally sure this was the response Robot was fishing for, though it wasn’t. “I can only hope to know you more.”

Mr. Robot wonders how long they’ll do this for before he figures it out – either through being told or putting the pieces together himself, when things stop adding up. That the ‘ _just a tech’_ Elliot and the ‘Elliot’ standing before him were two completely different people.

It should have felt like lying. It should have felt wrong. But he was still a part of Elliot, and Elliot wanted this just as badly as Mr. Robot did, in the back of his naive little brain. He just hadn’t come to terms with it, yet. This – the familiarity of this, when Robot would let him remember – would help him get there.

“Oh, yeah?” Mr. Robot murmurs, glancing around the high-rise apartment that catered to exactly zero of his personal tastes. He didn’t even find any of the art to be appealing – and couldn’t imagine that Tyrell did, either. His wife’s old things.

The reality that Tyrell didn’t know them at all, really, hung bitterly on the tip of Robot’s tongue, but he doesn’t mention it. Whatever spurred Tyrell on, that was all Mr. Robot was worried about, no matter how far it was from the truth.

The truth was never what you wanted it to be – for them, that Elliot wasn’t actually in love with Tyrell. Not the way Tyrell saw it. Elliot didn’t have much of a clue that Tyrell loved him at all, instead pawning off his weirdness, his devotion, on being an executive, a certifiable nutcase. _Love_ wasn’t in Elliot’s picture of Tyrell; just crazy and corporate.

Tyrell nods, bright blue eyes shining. His lips are slightly damp, face slightly pink. If Mr. Robot were to really look, he was sure he would find a semi in his overly expensive pants. “You’re everything.”

“I don’t know about _everything,”_ Mr. Robot smiles, steps up to Tyrell so they’re facing each other, his hands pressing into Tyrell’s solid chest. “But maybe a lot.”

A teeny smile dances across Tyrell’s pretty pink lips, his hands come to sit on Robot’s waist. He’s warm – sometimes he even runs a little hot – and it always throws Mr. Robot for a loop. You’d expect Tyrell to feel like a block of ice, but he’s just as warm and malleable as every other human alive.

_“And unfortunately, we’re all human. Except me, of course.”_

What a goddamned liar. Tyrell just was as human as human could get – all tangled, messy emotion, no finesse at all when it came to how he felt. He was the type to wear his heart on his sleeve and act surprised when he got hurt.

Still, it was something. Elliot’s emotions pushed to the point they almost broke him, and Tyrell understood that. It was hard to want to throw that mutual feeling away, that unspoken _I understand you_ that neither of them actually wanted to admit to.

He smells of detergent and sweat, like the metallic of the watch he wore – and faintly, like cooking oil, as if he had made himself a meal.

There’s a moment, before Tyrell leans down to kiss him, when Tyrell studies Robot’s – _Elliot’s_ – face, like he was studying some secret information of great value. As if studying a holy book.

That was the thing, with him. No matter how good of hackers they were, they were never going to be divinity, the way Tyrell thought. Just the admiration is enough, though, and Robot can feel Elliot’s eager, touch-starved body flush with sudden heat. He was halfway hard and planning on getting the rest of the way there.

Because while he wasn’t a god, he sure as shit didn’t mind being looked at like one.

Tyrell is always a good kisser, unhurried and deliberate, tracing the inside of Robot’s mouth with his tongue like that’s what he was put on this earth to do. But it was clear – crystal, by this point – that he preferred to be led. Mr. Robot was a self-proclaimed leader, and a little thrill goes up his spine to know that Tyrell would let him do whatever he wanted, even as Tyrell, currently, is the one doing all the work.

It isn’t as desperate as it once had been, not the frantic kind of mouth-on-mouth, quicky-handjob bullshit that it was at first, back at the arcade.

This was achingly gentle, too familiar, and yet somehow astoundingly foreign. Tyrell has one of his big paws cupping Elliot’s slim, sharp jaw, almost dwarfing his face. Mr. Robot, the one who feels it, tries not to think of how similar his position is to what Sharon Knowles’ must have been like, before Tyrell choked her to death.

But Tyrell – with his eyes closed, tan lashes fanned against his rosy cheeks – couldn’t kill anyone like this. He’s worlds away. Maybe the key to his sanity was getting dick regularly.

And Robot was a sadist in personality – but not in practice. Tyrell would happily be pushed to his limits, but Robot really had no intention of taking him there. Sometimes a simple fuck worked better than all the fancy kink shit.

“Mm,” Mr. Robot hums, unsurprised to find Tyrell crying when he pulls away. “Already? Before I'm even inside you?”

“Ha-ha,” Tyrell murmurs, soft and embarrassed, swiping half-heartedly at his face. His lips are cherry-red, slick with spit. Mr. Robot strains hotly between his legs as he watches the tears build and fall, tumbling down Tyrell’s pale face and flush, pink cheeks.

He was so beautiful when he cried – like a statue of a saint in anguish, or a stained-glass window made by an old master. Not that Robot had ever told him so. That would only stand to inflate his ego until it could enter in the Macy’s Day Parade.

“Thank you for coming back,” Tyrell whispers, sniffling, like Mr. Robot wasn’t getting his dick wet, too. “Sometimes, I… I just don’t know if you will.”

Something threatens to break in Robot’s chest – whether it was his heart or not, was yet to be seen. But he feels something splinter, fracture, beg to shatter with its million tiny hairline cracks. He doesn’t like it one bit.

This was dangerous. This was getting too attached. He says his next sentence anyway.

“I’ll come back,” he promises, even though he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to keep it. “I won’t leave you behind.”

He might as well have declared his undying love, might as well have been proposing, the way a bright smile breaks out on Tyrell’s face. “Thank you, Elliot,” he breathes.

_Not my name._ “Yeah, yeah. Whatever. Doesn’t mean anything,” Robot says, joking, just to see Tyrell’s smile twist into a confused frown, so he can kiss it away.

“Don’t think about it too much, sweetheart,” Robot mumbles against his mouth, stroking Tyrell's wet cheek with the pad of his thumb. “Know I’ll come back, and don’t worry anymore, okay?”

He’d thought he was good at reassuring _Elliot_ , but Tyrell immediately takes this as the gospel truth, all his fears banished. The confused frown is replaced with a satisfied little smirk, as if he had gotten everything he ever wanted.

And maybe that felt good, to make him feel better. If Mr. Robot cared to look at it for too long.

Tyrell’s bed had a frame, and it was probably an expensive frame, all brass and heavy and detailed. So, there’s no thud of mattress innards being smushed into the floor, like Elliot’s flimsy bed would have given. _Oh, the luxuries money can buy._

Tyrell’s hands are everywhere, undoing buttons and zippers, touching everything he could reach.

“God – eager, much?” Mr. Robot bluffs, because he knows Tyrell won’t call him on being just as into it.

Tyrell would take just about anything, if it got him somewhere he wanted to be. Mr. Robot could probably cut one of his fingers off at the knuckle, put it on keychain and give it back – so long as Tyrell got to cum afterward.

Tyrell moans quietly, half-shrugged out of his trousers and button-down. It takes an ungraceful tumble around the bed for Robot to get on top, his hands gripping Tyrell’s bare shoulders as the button-down falls to the floor.

“Christ,” Tyrell keens, head thrown back, neck bare and exposed. Mr. Robot takes the moment to bow his head and leave a hickey, satisfied when Tyrell whines and squirms, but doesn’t make any indication that Robot should stop. Even though the mark is going to be very visible to all of corporate America tomorrow, right in the hollow of Tyrell’s elegant, pale throat. Too high up to be hidden in his collar.

Something about the thought of Tyrell walking around with Robot’s bruise all day, in front of stuffy businessmen who surely know he’s widowed – it speeds up the need to get inside. Enough messing around.

Robot fumbles with the bedside drawer, knowing where the lube was via previous visits. Tyrell’s eyes are firmly shut, tiny blue veins spidering across his eyelids, while Robot watches, breathing heavily. He was too pretty – too downright gorgeous – for his own good. He looks like a fucked-up Sleeping Beauty, lying there with his dick flush against his stomach.

Mr. Robot’s too turned on, it’s making him stupid. “You really are too pretty,” he mumbles, without thinking. Tyrell’s eyes fly open – Robot had never said such a thing, before. Never had given him the satisfaction.

“Stupidly pretty is still pretty, right?” Mr. Robot babbles on, hearing himself speak like an airhead. “Pale and pink, that’s what it is with you – your lips and the head of your dick are the same color.”

Tyrell looks about ready to come up with a rebuttal, baby blues narrowed as if gauging how to reply, but Robot’s busied himself slicking two fingers with a generous amount of lube, his hand then come to settle on the curve of Tyrell’s inner thigh. A promise.

Tyrell swallows whatever it was he was about to say, swallows the desire to be praised and called pretty again, just _needing_ to be fucked, desperate for it. His brain dully buzzes with arousal. His hips snap forward of their own accord – and of course, the air provides no friction. He whimpers.

“ _Please –“_

Robot catches his mouth in a kiss to shut him up, having never quite gotten down with the begging. Tyrell moans, long and loud _– just from this, hasn’t even been touched properly yet_ – and it vibrates down Robot’s throat.

“God – you –,” he doesn’t have the words for what he wants to call Tyrell. They’ve escaped him, vibrated straight out of his brain.

He, what? Had no right to look the way he did? To make Robot as crazy as he did? To be as good of a fuck as he was?

Mr. Robot doesn’t have an answer for himself. His brain had officially gone off the air. He’s got two fingers in Tyrell’s ass, and Tyrell’s pushing himself down for purchase, taking what he’s given. Three fingers brings a moan, a high one, and a tiny tear sneaking out under Tyrell’s squeezed-shut eyes.

Robot still isn’t thinking straight – lust fills up his brain until his head feels too big for his shoulders. He’s hard, too hard, hard enough to hurt. _God_ , he needs to get _inside_.

Tyrell meets him with one leg thrown over Robot’s shoulder, the other wrapped around his waist. He’d been mostly quiet all this time, but now he begins to speak – incoherent sex talk, not listening at all to his own words about _god_ or _fate_ or _fuck me, please._

Words tumble out of his mouth whether they make complete sense or not, grown a mind of their own. Mr. Robot doesn’t mind. Seeing Tyrell turn into a bumbling idiot was a reward on its own merit.

“Since you asked so nicely,” Robot purrs, his face pressed in the sweaty notch between Tyrell’s neck and shoulder. “So good for me. So good, asking like that. So polite.”

Tyrell says a long, presumably vulgar sentence, in what can only be Swedish. Then, in English, “ _Oh please, fuck me, please, fuck me, please, please...”_

“How could I say no to that face?” Robot murmurs, with all the confidence of a man not leaking where he’s pressed against Tyrell’s thousand-count sheets. His voice is calm and sweet, like Elliot’s balls aren’t literally screaming for him to get on with it.

 _There’s something different_ , Mr. Robot thinks, _about fucking the same person multiple times._

Something about Tyrell grabbing Elliot’s tiny waist and yanking Robot forward, as if he had some inches of cock he was holding out on. Something about the way he keeps talking, no filter, as Robot’s thrusts get more frantic.

Something about Tyrell cumming first, and cumming untouched, as if to prove Mr. Robot shoved into his tight heat was all he needed. Groaning and tightening his legs, spunk shot up onto his lower stomach, making a wet patch in his happy trail. Gripping tightly to the sheets as Robot chases his own finish.

“Fuck… Fuck…” A steady stream of profanity from them both, Tyrell’s sharp nails digging into his back. He’s so close, not gonna last much longer. _Fuck…_

“Tyrell! Fuck!” Robot’s hips stutter, and he’s come inside Tyrell before he realizes he’s used his first name. Another first – at least where sex was concerned.

Tyrell’s eyes flutter open. He’s breathing hard, pupils blown wide. “Good?”

_Good._ Mr. Robot had half a million descriptors for what just happened, and none of them were as mundane as ‘ _good_ ’. He pulls out, maybe watches the release of his jizz from Tyrell’s beaten asshole for a little too long. Gross; but satisfying to know it was his.

Tyrell was his.

“Yeah, good job, princess,” Mr. Robot murmurs, knowing there should be a lot more heat in his voice. “I need a shower.”

Tyrell smiles. His teeth are unnaturally white - bleached, presumably. It doesn't annoy Mr. Robot like it should. “Mine’s big enough for two.”

“Fuck you, man, you could probably fit half the Lakers in that fuckin’ tub,” Mr. Robot says, rolling onto his back. “I dare you to live like a middle-class American for a week. You’d never make it.”

“Probably not,” Tyrell admits. He buries his head into Robot’s shoulder, heavy and warm, as if he intended to fall asleep there.

And Mr. Robot just might’ve let him.


End file.
